Poor Dorothy felt dreadfully uncomfortable and crestfallen. She had been alone all day, and it did seem such a little thing to go to the post with Helen Jones, who knew all about her costume, and quite agreed with her that it was a 'horrid shame' for people to be so careless as to have _fires_, when they had the charge of other people's things.

Louisa had scolded her, and been very cross when she came in, but Dorothy really saw no reason why it mattered very much what Miss Addis...o...b.. thought. It wasn't like mother to mind anything like that so much.

d.i.c.k came in about half an hour later. He had been home to dinner, and had gone out again to a cricket match.

"Mother has gone to bed," said Dorothy rather importantly. "She doesn't want to be disturbed, and you are not to go to her. She's got a headache, and father isn't coming home."

[Sidenote: d.i.c.k's Strange Silence]

d.i.c.k looked at her very hard, and without speaking went straight upstairs, listened a little, and opened his mother's door. "He _is_ a tiresome boy!" thought Dorothy; "now mother will think I never told him."

Louisa brought in a poached egg, and some baked apples as he came down again.

"Cook says it's so late, you had better make it your supper, sir," she said.

"Mother wants a hot-water bottle," answered d.i.c.k; "she's as cold as ice.

I think you or cook had better go up and see about her. Perhaps she'd better have a fire."

"A fire in August! Oh, d.i.c.k, how _ridiculous_!" exclaimed Dorothy.

"All right, sir," said Louisa, taking the indiarubber bottle he had brought down; "don't you worry."

d.i.c.k took a book, and planting his elbows on the table, seemed to be reading; in reality he was blinking his eyelashes very hard, to keep back tears.

Dorothy thought the whole world was going mad. As far as she knew the only trouble in it was her own.

"Aren't you going to take any supper, d.i.c.k?" she said plaintively.

d.i.c.k pushed the egg and apples away, and cutting himself a hunch of bread, went out of the room without speaking.

"Every one is very polite to-night," thought Dorothy. However, she sat down, ate d.i.c.k's egg and helped herself to apples with plenty of sugar, and felt a little comforted.

At eight o'clock she went up to bed, glad the tiresome, miserable day was at an end. She trod very softly, but her mother heard her and called her in.

Dorothy was glad, for she spoke in her natural voice and not at all as if she were angry.

She was still dressed and lying on the bed, but her hand, which had frightened d.i.c.k by being so cold, was now burning.

"I spoke hastily to you, Dollie," she said. "You didn't know how important it was. I am going to tell you now, dear, for it may be a lesson to you."

Dorothy stood awkwardly by the bed; she didn't like her mother to apologise, and she didn't want the lecture which she imagined was coming.

"Father," said Mrs. Graham, "is in a very bad way indeed. I can't explain to you all about it because you would not understand, but a friend he trusted very much has failed him, and another friend has been spreading false rumours about his business. If he doesn't get enough money to pay his creditors by Sat.u.r.day he must go bankrupt. Miss Addis...o...b.. was a friend of his long ago. She has not been kind to him lately, and she has always been rude to me. I didn't tell father because I knew he would not let me, but I wrote and told her just how it was, and asked her to let bygones be bygones. I was hoping so much she would come, and if she came she would have lent him the money. She has so much it would mean nothing to her. Then I was disappointed in London. I thought Mr. Meredith would have been there--he is rich too--and my cousin, but he is not over at all: just his wife and daughter, and they are rushing through London. They were so busy we had scarcely time to speak. I half wonder they remembered my existence."

"Oh, mother!" protested Dorothy; and then with great effort: "You could go over to-morrow to Miss Addis...o...b.., or write, mother; she would understand."

"No, dear. It is no use thinking of it. To offend her once is to offend her always. Besides, I am tired out, and there are only two more days. I have told you because I didn't want it to all come quite suddenly, and you are so wrapt up in yourself, Dollie, you don't notice the way d.i.c.k does. If you had told me he had _pa.s.sed_, Dorothy, when I came in, I should not have felt quite so bad."

"But I didn't know, mother," said Dorothy. "d.i.c.k didn't tell me. _Has_ he pa.s.sed?"

"Whose fault was it, Dollie? He came home to dinner and found you all alone. Did you _ask_ him how he had got on?"

Dorothy hung her head. Mrs. Graham kissed her. "Well, go to bed and pray for dear father," she said. "It is worse for him than for any of us."

Dorothy felt as if she were choking. When she got to the door she stood hesitating with her hand on the handle.

"I have a hundred pounds in the Bank, mother, that grandma left me.

Father can have that if it would be any use." She had made the offer with an effort, for Dorothy liked to have a hundred pounds of her own.

What little girl would not? But her mother answered peevishly: "It would be no more use than if you offered him a halfpenny. Don't be foolish."

d.i.c.k's door was open and Dorothy went in.

"Isn't it dreadful, d.i.c.k!" she said. "What is _bankrupt_? How much money does father want?"

"About fifteen hundred," said d.i.c.k savagely. "It's all that old Pemberton backing out of it. Father wanted to get his patents to Brussels, and he's got medals for them all, but it cost a lot of money and now they are not bought. So the business will go to smash, and he'll lose the patents besides, that's the worst of it!"

"d.i.c.k," said Dorothy wistfully, "don't you think it would be better if father attended to his proper business and stopped inventing things when it costs so much?"

d.i.c.k sprang up with blazing eyes.

"You little brute!" he said, "go out of my room. No, I don't. Father's the cleverest and best man in the world. He can't help being a genius!"

[Sidenote: The Last Straw]

This was Dorothy's last straw; she went away and threw herself, dressed, on her bed, sobbing as if her heart would break. And only this morning she thought she was miserable because her new dress had not come.

Dorothy cried till she could cry no longer, and then she got up and slowly undressed. The house was very still. A clock somewhere was striking ten, and it seemed to Dorothy as if it were the middle of the night. She was cold now as her mother had been, but no one was likely to come to her. She felt alone and frightened, and as if a wall had descended between her and d.i.c.k, and her mother and father. Among all the other puzzling and dreadful things, nothing seemed so strange to Dorothy as that d.i.c.k showed better than herself. He had gone up to mother when he was told not, and yet it was _right_ (even Dorothy could understand that) for him to disobey her, and _she_ had just gone to the post, and all this dreadful thing would come of it. Dorothy had always thought d.i.c.k was such a bad boy and she was so good, and now it seemed all the other way. She was _father's_ girl, too, and father was always down on d.i.c.k, yet--her eyes filled when she thought of it--d.i.c.k was loyal, and had called her a little brute, and mother said it was worst of all for father.

She knelt down by her bed. Until to-night Dorothy had never really felt she needed Jesus as a friend, though she sometimes thought she loved Him. Now it seemed as if she _must_ tell some one, and she wanted Him very, very badly. So she knelt and prayed, and though she cried nearly all the time she felt much happier when she got up.

"I am so selfish. I am so sorry. Please help me!" was the burden of poor Dollie's prayer, but she got into bed feeling as if Jesus had understood, and fell asleep quite calmly.

In the morning Dorothy awoke early. It was scarcely light. It was the first time in her life she had woke to sorrow, and it seemed very dreadful. Yet Dorothy felt humble this morning, and not helpless as she had done last night. She felt as if Someone, much stronger than herself, was going to stand by her and help her through.

[Sidenote: Dorothy's Project]

Lying there thinking, many things seemed plain to her that she had not understood before, and a thought came into her head. It was _her_ fault, and she was the one who should suffer; not father, nor mother, nor d.i.c.k.

It would not be easy, for Dorothy did not like Miss Addis...o...b.., and she was afraid of her, but she must go to her.

Directly the thought came into her head Dorothy was out of bed and beginning to dress. And that mysterious clock which she had never heard before was just striking five when she stole like a little white ghost downstairs, carrying her shoes in her hand, and unbolting the side door, slipped out into a strange world which was still fast asleep.

Miss Addis...o...b.. lived ten miles away, but Dorothy did not remember anything about that. All her thought was to get there as soon as possible. One thing, she knew the way, for the flower-show was held in her grounds every year, and Dorothy had always been driven there. It was a nearly straight road.

About ten o'clock that morning a gentleman was driving along the high-road when he suddenly pulled up his horse and threw the reins to the groom. It had been quite cool when Dorothy started, but now it was very hot, and there seemed no air at all. A little girl in a white frock was lying by the roadside.

He stooped over her and felt her pulse, and Dorothy opened large, startled blue eyes.